


Fan Mail, and Other Ways to Get Yourself Killed

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Also Do Not Piss Cecil Off, Blame Everything on Kevin, Carlos Is Socially Awkward, Cecil Is Sort of Human (Except When He's Not), Don't Piss Night Vale Off, Fluff, M/M, Mystery Bad Guy, SO MUCH FLUFF, Secret Police, Threatening Letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cecil has it bad, Carlos is nowhere near as confused as he pretends to be, and nebulous forces of stationary are standing in their way.<br/>Luckily, Night Vale is well-equipped to deal with these sorts of problems.<br/>To put it bluntly, Cecil has boundless optimism; Carlos has a lock on his door, and everybody else has an axe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this is actually pretty far written so I don't think it'll just peter out in yet another abysmal failure at maintaining voice... If it does come to that, I will drug myself on coffee and ridiculous romance sit coms until I'm buzzed enough to finish this one. I'm actually quite fond of it.  
> Welcome to Night Vale does not belong to me because I am not that cool. Also, Cecil is amazing.  
> Thank you for reading; carry on!

Cecil has a secret.  
  
Not in the childish, I’m Saying This So You Will Ask Me About It So That I Can Smugly Withhold Information—no, he _does_ have several of those. But this one’s different. It’s also not secret cancer, which is generally a good thing.  
  
So it’s a secret between adolescence and cancer and it is, as an alarming number of things have come to be, about Carlos.  
  
Carlos.  
  
 _Carlos._  
  
You wouldn’t _think_ that six letters, two syllables, _it starts with a C like mine, but it’s got the hard pronunciation and mine has the soft and Carlos, Carlos, Carlos—_  
  
Yes, well, you wouldn’t think there was a name that could encompass the void, divinity, discount health plans, and shared fast food, but you’d be wrong and Cecil has this secret. It’s not really a very good thing.

\---

To put it in context, the first time Carlos asks Cecil out (and he can say it wasn’t a date all he wants, because it was, Cecil wrote that it was in his planner, and Carlos had intentionally used ambiguous phrasing in the first place), with the titillating offer of his company and a free medical checkup, Cecil had not quite told everyone on the city block, had promised not to announce it on air, and had gotten a high five from one of the station’s secret police operatives.  
  
Ah, that had been a good afternoon. Carlos was so _gentle_ with him. His broad, expressive hands treated Cecil with the utmost respect, as befitted a fledgling bird, not a _slightly_ mutated human with the capacity for pain, but a general lack of concern about its strange tickling sensation. Cecil had assured Carlos that it was alright, he could just go ahead and stick as many needles as he wanted, wherever he wanted, and was he sure that he didn’t need Cecil to remove his shirt?  
  
Carlos had politely assured Cecil that no, that was just fine about the shirt, and he should take better care of himself. Needles, according to Carlos, were not toys and self-preservation (apparently) was not optional. Also, was Cecil aware that his skin cells were actively chewing through the IV needle?  
  
Sweet, perfect Carlos. One half hour with his charmingly careful scientific method, and Cecil was putty in his hands. Well, Cecil had already been putty in his hands, but it certainly didn’t hurt that Carlos spent practically the whole time _looking_ at him and asking him _how he felt_ and was too engrossed in his many tall and blinking machines to stutter and flee when Cecil suggested dinner together on Friday night.  
  
(Cecil did not ultimately get dinner together on Friday night, but Carlos ended up parting with one of the stickers he was giving to the children participating in this voluntary free medical checkup, which Cecil totally counted as a win because he now permissibly possessed an object that not only had Carlos touched, but that he’d _owned_. Cecil had something of Carlos’s. And he hadn’t been forced to resort to going through the scientist’s trash either, so ha, take that Steve Carlsburg!)  
  
“If you ever need to take any sort of medical diagnostic again,” Cecil informed Carlos as he was being walked out of the lab. “Feel free to call me. Or send a note. Or you could come by the station, if you wanted; I’m sure everyone would be happy to see you.” Carlos was giving Cecil his undivided attention. He’d started doing that at some point between Cecil’s metabolic rate and electromagnetic field readings, and Cecil was, honestly, very flattered.  
  
At the mention of the radio station, however, you could see Carlos’s expression shut down. He never seemed to want to come to the station, not since the first time. You know, the one where he’d gotten very panicked for no clear reason and been endearingly concerned with everyone’s safety, only to run away in a panic when one of the interns had offered him a glass of water? Also, it was entirely a coincidence that the intern had somehow died after drinking the glass of water herself (Intern Larabeth would be greatly missed).  
  
The good people of Night Vale Community Radio must have left a bad impression. Cecil, for one, was not giving up. And when he at last coerced Carlos into visiting again, he was also determined to have cake and other refreshments at the ready to gently re-impress themselves, as a flaming brand to tender human flesh.  
  
Cecil had eventually agreed that he should not be allowed to cook the cake, however. They all remembered the station potluck of 93.  
  
Never again.  
  
Carlos wouldn’t be visiting within the foreseeable future, unfortunately. Right now he was mumbling something about science and being busy and not quite meeting Cecil’s eyes. Cecil smiled indulgently, allowing himself to be herded to the exit. “I do mean it,” he insisted. “Call me as you will. I’m always happy to participate in scientific pursuits.”  
  
Carlos narrowed his eyes at Cecil a little bit (his eyes were also perfect). “Oh?”  
  
“Well,” Cecil attempted to be his most charming. “I suppose the discount checkup doesn’t hurt. _Literally_. You’re… _very_ gentle.”  
  
“Oh, I, um, er,” Carlos said, gestured in the approximate direction of the city council war tower, and then fled.  
  
Cecil sighed into the open air, happily, and without purpose. The open air sighed back, and asked him where its car keys were.  
  
After directing the open air to the lost and found in the abandoned mineshaft, Cecil set out with a renewed belief that Carlos was the love of his life, possibly the entire reason for his existence (barring news dissemination via public radio), and strolled out into the night.  
  
He was greeted with a note on his doorstep, tastefully decorated in… lamb’s blood? Yes. Lamb’s blood. It carried a brisk, lemony scent.  
  
 _Do not approach the scientist_ , said the note. Followed by _splotch, drip_ as viscera splattered on Cecil’s shoes.  
  
Cecil smiled at the note, waved to his neighbor Todd, who seemed to have grown tusks again, and went inside. The note went into his pocket, which could always be washed later.  
  
And nothing happened.  
  
Well, not until Carlos called Cecil back to the labs, anyway.

\----

Twenty minutes into his second Carlos-bequeathed checkup (which seemed more extensive this time. Cecil saw electrodes and what appeared to be a large dental drill lying nearby, but his excitement was premature and Carlos glared at him when Cecil asked if those were for him) and Cecil was lying on an exam table, wondering if his reflexes could in fact be tested by taps so moderately delivered he didn’t quite feel them. He was being quiet, because after the electrodes, he’d offered to give Carlos one of his fingers to study, on account of how people lost them all the time anyway and he didn’t think one measly finger would make much of a difference in his civic duties—and _that_ had gotten him lectured. So yes, quiet seemed like the best option, particularly because Carlos seemed to be in a bad mood. Cecil did not want to make this bad mood worse.  
  
What he wanted to do was take Carlos into his arms and inundate him with love and affection and baked goods until the dark circles under his eyes went away.  
  
Which was precisely why Cecil was sitting quietly. He did not want to make Carlos’s bad mood worse, and Cecil’s impulses where Carlos was concerned were slightly… suspect.  
  
“You keep talking about me on the radio,” Carlos said after a lengthy span of near-silence and dark muttering. He was typing something, looking determinedly away, so Cecil’s smile took aim at Carlos’s left shoulder.  
  
“How could I do otherwise, when it comes to one of Night Vale’s most intrepid seekers of quantifiable knowledge?” Cecil asked. “You, Carlos, are the most interesting visitor we have had in a while—or shall I say, the _most_ interesting visitor that I have ever known.” Cecil bit his lip. Carlos’s shoulders had gone up. “Does it… perturb you?”  
  
“You called me perfect,” Carlos muttered. His typing sounded slightly violent now.  
  
“I call many people many things,” Cecil responded brightly. “ _Steve Carlsburg_ , for instance, I call a putrescent speck that should have been left at Desert Bluffs upon the unholy hour of his birth.” He added, under his breath, “Because I tell the truth and you are _perfect_.”  
  
“I am not perfect,” Carlos announced, facing Cecil again. He had a blood pressure cuff and a slightly demonic gleam in his eye.  
  
“Why, Carlos,” Cecil purred, crossing his arms. “Are you—a man of science and hard factuality—concerning yourself with our simple and unassuming radio station, with all its anecdotal evidence and emotionally-vindicated illogic?”  
  
“Trust me, emotion is only the tip of the nonsensical iceberg,” Carlos grumbled in a temper—and oh, what a startlingly attractive temper it was. That jaw clenched, those eyes flashed, and Cecil fell ever more hopelessly in love—but even enraged, Carlos extricated Cecil’s arm with the utmost tenderness and fastened the blood pressure cuff like he was troubled by the fact that Cecil might _bruise_. “I’m not perfect,” he mumbled again, head down to observe the readings.  
  
Cecil observed the top of Carlos’s beautiful head, and the recently shorn hair that decorated it like a crown of luscious, inky storm clouds. From beneath it, Carlos’s forlorn ears peeked out, red-tinged.  
  
“It makes me indescribably happy to hear that you listen to my show,” Cecil confessed, wondering if the rapid giddy tumble of his heartbeat was going to throw of Carlos’s measurements. “Well, perhaps not so indescribably, seeing as I’m going to describe it anyway. This is—it’s just like when you open up your Christmas presents a month early and discover that you’ve earned your first set of recording and ceremonial bloodletting equipment. It’s like that.”  
  
Carlos looked up at Cecil, eyes wide—then going rapidly narrow, which Cecil watched with childish fascination. “I’m beginning to understand that when you say those sorts of things, you’re being serious,” Carlos observed.  
  
“I’m always serious,” Cecil told him back, widening his eyes and willing Carlos with all his level 3.4 telekinetic rating (really; he had the certificate and everything) to _get it_.  
  
Carlos looked back down. His ears were a little bit redder.  
  
Cecil grinned until it felt like all his teeth were showing.

\----

He got home, singing the weather at a somewhat socially unacceptable volume, but let’s face it, if _you_ had just had _your_ second date with Carlos, you would also be singing love songs at a somewhat socially unacceptable volume. And nailed to his door was another note.  
  
 _Further contact with the scientist will result in mandatory re-education._  
  
Cecil smiled, waved to Todd, who appeared to be eating his lawn hose, and went inside. Once he closed his door gently behind him, he crumpled the note in his fist and threw it into the fireplace for the gremlins to eat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohh, there's so much good writing about this fandom already. And so much more good writing to be done. It's epic. It's slightly creepy. It's _adorable_.
> 
> So yes, look! A new chapter! Does the plot thicken? Theories of who is sending Cecil threatening messages are, of course, welcomed.
> 
> But the correct answer will always be Kevin. Because really, let's just blame him.
> 
> I hope you enjoy~
> 
> \----

That night--that wonderful night, after Cecil provided many blood samples--Carlos left Cecil a voicemail.  
  
 _Sorry_ , it began, as Cecil hovered over the machine like an overeager sales representative. _This afternoon, I was needlessly… abrupt. I was—it had nothing to do with—I did not want to be rude._ A pause. _You have a remarkably… interesting radio show_.  
  
Cecil broke into a cheer and nearly missed the next part of what Carlos was saying.  
  
 _That’s not what I—no, I mean. It’s a good show. I like it. It doesn’t make sense most of the time, but I still like it._  
  
At this point Cecil would have been perfectly willing to melt into a puddle of happiness and ooze viscously through the rest of his life.  
  
 _Officially_ , Carlos muttered, _thanks for you considerate volunteerism in these medical tests. Unofficially, please come by for further study_.  
  
Cecil was on cloud nine.

He also had a pretty good idea of where these notes were coming from.  
  
That… wasn’t a good thing.

First of all, Cecil hadn’t mentioned on the radio show that he was going to submit to medical testing at Carlos’s lab—he might not be flawlessly professional, but he did discern between what was actually news and what was the lovesick ramblings of someone afflicted with the metastatic aortic cancer that was: a crush. Also, Carlos had told him not to.  
  
So he’d kept it to himself until he was _off_ the air, and then informed everyone in the immediate vicinity that he was going to see Carlos—the perfect and immaculate Carlos!—and that if anyone had baked good stashed anywhere, he would love to bequeath them unto Carlos and was willing to shell out for it. There were no baked goods, which was a pity, and Cecil had amicably but firmly turned down the suggestion of cat hair, because he understood that not all people enjoyed having feline fur thrown at them as an endearingly esoteric greeting.  
  
So although he hadn’t spoken about associating with Carlos on air, it wasn’t hard to imagine how word was getting out. Cecil didn’t blame anyone. They were a chatty bunch at Night Vale Community Radio. They probably had not meant any harm and had only been informing on Cecil in the kindest, most conscientious way. Perhaps they had thought that the Sherrif’s Secret Police intended to throw Cecil a congratulatory celebration.  
  
Cecil, being reasonably sure that this was not the case, made sure _not_ to mention that he was going by the labs again.  
  
He also left the station thirty minutes early, on the pretext of attempting to interview the witnesses of a vanishing disease—literally, it was a disease that appeared in midair and vanished, and everyone was quite at a loss as to how they knew that it was a disease, only that they did—drove in a very circuitous route to ensure that he wasn’t followed, and arrived at Carlos’s labs sadly without baked goods, but hopefully without police tails.  
  
 _There_ , thought Cecil, making a frantic (and largely failed) attempt to make his hair look less like it had been flattened under headphones all day. He settled for rigorously straightening his tie, and got out of the car in a reasonably presentable state. _There_ , he thought again. _That should appease our conscientiously minded powers that be of my powers of subtlety when in a relationship. And of the nonexistent nature of my interest in a relationship with Carlos. Because I’m not here._  
  
Okay, so municipal authorities were probably tailing them both, but Cecil figured it was worth a go.  
  
He knocked. Last time, it had taken Carlos about fifteen minutes to poke a head blearily outside and stare blankly at Cecil’s smile for another five before recalling his invitation. This time it was just under three, and Carlos appeared to be slightly out of breath.  
  
Cecil hid a giddy smile behind a feigned cough. “I have come to make my mandated contributions to science,” he announced, stepping inside. Carlos gestured him in a half-second later.  
  
“It’s not really mandated,” Carlos murmured, shuffling after Cecil as they jaunted towards the examination room. “Not really, as in, not at all. This is a completely voluntary process, and er, didn’t I make that clear? You can go if you want.”  
  
Cecil looked. Carlos staring at him with a slightly defiant quirk to his mouth and a little bit of sadness in his eyes. As though he thought Cecil required vague, yet menacing governmental requirements to want to surgically attach himself to Carlos like a versatile third limb.  
  
Cecil felt his heart snap in half, release approximately two dozen butterflies into his stomach, and then melt into a soppy little puddle of goo.  
  
“Carlos,” he crooned with his most reassuring smile, “ _Dear_ Carlos. Time to be spent with you is always a mandatory occasion.”  
  
Carlos blinked at him. “Ah,” he said. A long pause followed, in which Cecil’s smile refused to be daunted, and Carlos appeared to be trying very hard not to move. Eventually, he raised a hand. “Would you like me to show you to the exam room?” He said bravely, and oh dear, his voice seemed to be shaking a little bit. Cecil tried to make his smile a little less predatory while simultaneously swooning in a fit of adulation.  
  
“That would be very kind of you,” he agreed, and happily followed Carlos. From behind, Cecil pragmatically chose to memorize the swish of Carlos’s shapely lab coat.  
  
Today Carlos was in a better mood and could be coaxed into conversation. They discussed bees, the Night Vale Community Radio health plan, summer months, and why anyone would wish to buy self-destructing polo socks.  
  
Carlos also forewent the stethoscope in taking Cecil’s pulse, and his hand stayed on Cecil’s wrist for a very long time. Carlos’s skin was very warm. Cecil carefully managed not to start squeaking, blush, or spontaneously kiss him. Carlos did an adequate job of pretending he did not know where his hand was (aside from this singularly adorable moment where he was juggling a stylus and a touchscreen device one-handedly) and only withdrew it as the examination came to a close.  
  
Cecil was sad to see it go. His hand was tingling just a little bit. He wondered if Carlos might not be slightly radioactive. It might explain his inherent perfection.  
  
“Would you like to come to dinner with me?” Cecil asked, folding his hands together (so they wouldn’t be lonely). Carlos’s head jerked up and Cecil tried very hard to look innocent, not like he wanted to do terrible things to that perfect hair—things that would not involve scissors or combs, but that would certainly involve Cecil’s hands, and possibly his mouth, and really, anything else he could touch Carlos’s hair with.  
  
“We could go somewhere nice,” Cecil offered. “For instance, we could go to the Polavscha’s Grill. Or a fast food joint, if you prefer. I was just thinking, you know, because you’re reasonably new here, that perhaps you would like to be introduced to some fine cuisine. Or reintroduced to some cuisine you’ve had many times. I was going to eat out with a whole group of friends, actually, and you could tag along—or it could just be me with you, together in an enclosed, private space?”  
  
Not really his most eloquent delivery, but you had to take into account the fact that this was Carlos. Cecil’s palms had decided that they needed to sweat like he was in the eighth grade facing down the Dodge-Arrow-and-Medium-to-Pocket-Grenade team all over again.  
  
Carlos cleared his throat, and met Cecil’s gaze very briefly. “That sounds like a date.”  
  
“Does it?” Cecil said with genuine concern. “I thought it sounded like _me_ , asking you out on a date. Because that is what I am trying to do.” As Carlos’s ears turned a little redder, Cecil inquired, “Is it working?”  
  
“I did not come to Night Vale to date,” Carlos said sternly, which was already a topic they had covered numerous times on Cecil’s voice mail, in his text messages, and in many a public conversation when Cecil had become alerted that Carlos was nearby and subsequently felt the need to turn up and offer assistance in any way possible that meant they could be closer than ten feet and eight inches.  
  
Carlos went on, “I am entirely focused on scientific research, on study, on the careful and thorough uncovering of the many mysteries that hide under this vast desert soil.”  
  
Yes, yes, they’d gone over all this before. “And does the desert soil forbid you from having dinner?” Cecil pressed.  
  
Carlos answered, “It does if the dinner has an ulterior motive.”  
  
Cecil laughed. “Oh, _you_! No, I’m quite sure the dinner doesn’t have an ulterior motive. The kitchen staff give mandatory conduct lectures to their food products about that sort of thing. We haven’t had any food-related incidents in Night Vale for quite some time. Dear Carlos, _I_ am the one with the ulterior motive.”  
  
Cecil figured that if he was going to get turned down, he might as well make it as direct as possible. So he beamed at Carlos with all the power of unquenchable optimism and several lengthy minutes of almost-hand holding and said, “I am quite disposed towards you, if that has escaped your attention during all this rigorous studying. I like you. And I would very much like for you to come on a date with me.”  
  
“I don’t date,” Carlos said rather desperately.  
  
“Thank you for telling me,” Cecil answered, through slightly clenched teeth. “I would like an answer anyway, please.”  
  
Carlos was gaping at him a little. “Cecil—what do you want from me? I-I can’t just—”  
  
“Yes or no,” Cecil said plainly, gently.  
  
Carlos’s mouth opened for a moment and no sound came out. Cecil allowed his hopes to falter upward just a little bit.  
  
And then, “…No.”  
  
Devastation. Despair. Heart-wrenching sorrow and abysmal failure.  
  
Carlos _didn’t_ like him.  
  
Cecil closed his eyes and smiled a little bit. He hadn’t felt quite this wretched since the Fourth of July misery bombings. How… nostalgic. Yes, certainly nostalgic, let’s go with that, and not at all…  
  
He’d forgotten all about what it felt like to have your heart and soul plummeting into a shadowy abyss while your body stayed in a slightly chilly room and began to go a little numb around the edges. How it got so cold. So very cold.  
  
Cecil chose to take away from this the fact that Carlos made him feel strange and novel sensations. And not that Carlos made him feel a little bit very extremely sad.  
  
So Cecil said, “Thank you for telling me,” and opened his eyes. He felt slightly worse upon realizing that Carlos also looked deeply miserable. Cecil reached over and patted Carlos’s hand for a moment. Carlos’s hand was still very warm. He didn’t pull away, but he did seem to deflate somewhat.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Carlos murmured.  
  
“Oh no, dear Carlos,” Cecil sighed. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I asked a question and you answered and it is simply the life of a news reporter; you will not like every answer you receive.”  
  
Privately, Cecil added, _It is also the life of a news reporter to keep asking questions even when you’re afraid of the answers_.  
  
But Carlos looked so very sad that he decided to let it go.

\----

When Cecil got home there was no note decorating his doorstep, but he did notice peripherally that all the living things in his yard—the scrub brush and the weedy little cacti that lined his driveway—had been burned down and replaced with sharpened black stakes.  
  
So either it was charity drive month again, or this was a subtle indication that Cecil really should stop disobeying the governing forces of Night Vale. Cecil, however, did not much care at present. He did not even wave at Todd, merely trudged inside and threw himself onto his comfortingly plush sofa, where he proceeded to watch an excessive amount of reruns and feel very sorry for himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmmm... Yeah.
> 
> Is this too random?
> 
> I don't know why I'm even asking... This fandom. Argh. Gauging it is hard.
> 
> Anyway, we're about to hit The Plot so get ready for much more existential torment. : D
> 
> Also, yes, for anyone who is wondering; emotional whiplash IS what we aim for. And giggles.  
> \----

There were no more notes after that, because there was no more Carlos.  
  
Well, to be more specific, there was Carlos, in the physical, living and breathing entity kind of way. He was just a very _distant_ Carlos who proved to have an extraordinary aptitude for maintaining shouting distance between himself and Cecil at all times. There were no more lab tests, or voice mails, or texted exclamations of extreme distress and alarm over something his topsoil had begun to do under a full moon.  
  
There was no Carlos.  
  
Life was a sad and lonely place without Carlos, Cecil found. Which was odd, because life always seemed like a perfectly lovely and charming place before Carlos, which was also, coincidentally, a time _without_ Carlos. Cecil was not sure of the significance of ‘before’ and ‘without’, and he did not particularly want to be. He wanted Carlos to stop sending disaster alerts through notes smuggled to the station interns. He also wanted a time machine so he could return to the past and physically cram his date invitation back down his larynx.  
  
Neither seemed to be forthcoming.  
  
Cecil did not mope; he carried on with his solemn duties as Night Vale’s chief source of public radio information. His listeners and he, together they weathered many disasters, interviewed many behemoths, and discussed many public sports events. Cecil also got drunk once and left a very melancholy message on Carlos’s machine. He may or may not have debated at length about whether it was worth breaking into Carlos’s private home to delete it.  
  
He proved his considerate and law-abiding nature by not doing so, but _that_ sure didn’t seem to be much to his benefit. Carlos did not call Cecil back. Cecil’s voicemail stayed a very quiet and empty place (well, except for his friends, informants, fellow newsreporters, and SSP operatives. But it just wasn’t the same.)

\----

And then Cecil stumbled on Carlos in the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.

\----

Imagine: the dramatic entrance. Cecil, wearing something long that billowed and snapped in the night breeze. When he spoke, his voice boomed resonantly, informing Carlos that he was being dreadfully childish about this and Cecil had been elected to city council and was mandating that Carlos date him, immediately, with no further delay. His gaze was piercing, his logic was sound, his vocabulary was impressive. And his shoes made that really cool clicking noise from the movies.  
  
Now understand that none of that actually happened.  
  
If Cecil had known that Carlos was there, in fact, he probably would not have come at all, because he was wearing shorts and he knew they did not flatter him. Additionally, he had contracted a bit of a temperature, which was about ten degrees below normal, and so he was wearing several hot packs in an effort to combat this, and they made him look like an unholy hybrid of chipmunk and swimming pool float. Cecil had come to return a pair of bowling shoes he’d unwittingly absconded with in his not _entirely_ unwarranted concern with his radically fluctuating body heat.  
  
In short, he looked terrible, felt terrible, and tripped over Carlos on his way to the manager’s office because he wasn’t looking where he was going.  
  
Carlos, it may be said, also was not too cinematic at this moment, because Carlos was passed out on one of the benches and had spiders weaving webs through his hair. He looked exhausted, like a pair of socks that had been worn for many weeks straight, until they were loose and worn and somewhat smelly. He was unkempt, and while still perfect, he was not displaying his usual level of debonair focused intensity. He looked like he had sat down to rest and instantly slumped over in a fit of inexplicable narcolepsy.  
  
In fact, it was a very explicable fit of narcolepsy. It was the sort of narcolepsy that happened when you went through several days of insomnia fueled on nothing but coffee and a box of donuts located at the back of your fridge.  
  
Cecil froze in the act of beholding his beloved and perfect Carlos in slumber. Bewitching and flushed golden in the bowling alley lights, lab coat pristine, and his very being seeming to _glisten_ as a spider scuttled down his cheek.  
  
Carlos, meanwhile, continued to be oblivious, sedentary, and covered in cobwebs.  
  
Teddy Williams eventually came out of his office to see what was taking so long.  
  
“Oh, _that_ ,” he grumbled. “Well, seeing as you’re here, Cecil, you might as well take him with you. He fell asleep hours ago and I don’t think it would do to barricade him in here with the…” the manager shuddered slightly. “… _Thing_ in the pin retrieval area. Of lane five.”  
  
Cecil opened his mouth to protest that the overwhelming radiance of Carlos could not be described as a ‘that’; he at least merited a gendered pronoun, if not a title—perhaps The Glorious One; Cecil was working on it—or perhaps to declare that he doubted very much that Carlos wanted to go anywhere with Cecil, seeing as he’d spent the past few weeks enforcing the rule that Cecil not go anywhere with Carlos. Which was almost the same thing. Except one made Cecil feel slightly more like a potential sexual predator, but he didn’t know which.  
  
However, it must be said that Cecil, for all that he was a goodhearted creature, with mostly benevolent purposes, was staring at Carlos when he opened his mouth.  
  
Cecil smiled brightly as he handed over the shoes. “I completely agree,” he said, and attempted to sweep the dozing Carlos off his feet. “Oof,” said Cecil, stumbling a bit. “I think—“  
  
“Let me carry him to your car,” said Teddy Williams.  
  
“That would be lovely,” Cecil said, with what dignity he had left. Darned temperature. On the positive side, he’d at least managed to dislodge the spiders from Carlos’s perfect hair.  
  
Todd helped Cecil carry Carlos inside when he got home—and Cecil couldn’t thank Todd enough because really, he’d been a dreadful neighbor these past few weeks. He made sure to compliment Todd on his new fins, and they arranged Carlos on the sofa, and then Todd left and Cecil told himself firmly that he was NOT going to spend the evening crouched in front of the coffee table and staring at Carlos’s face. Particularly not when he was ill. It wouldn’t be right.  
  
So it was a _perfect coincidence_ when Carlos blinked his eyes open and saw Cecil crouched in front of the coffee table, staring at Carlos’s face.  
  
“Am I dead?” Carlos asked, which made Cecil bite back a smile because, oh, he was growing used to Night Vale after all! Carlos sank back into the small hillock of pillows Cecil had dug out of his closet. “I feel dead,” Carlos groaned. He cracked an eye open. “And you look dead.”  
  
“That’s very impolite,” Cecil said, grinning from ear to ear because Carlos was actually talking to him.  
  
Carlos sighed. “No, clearly, I’m still alive,” he said to himself. More conversationally, he added, “Do you know that Night Vale’s death rate exceeds the birth rate by 200%, and yet it never seems to run out of citizens?”  
  
“That’s very mysterious,” Cecil agreed, and stroked a bit of cobweb out of Carlos’s hair before it could waft into his eyes. Carlos sighed under his hand, eyes closing again.  
  
“ _Cecil_. Is this your house?”  
  
“I assure you, I haven’t kidnapped you,” Cecil declared. He paused. “Well, legally, I suppose this is a kidnapping, but we can always fill out the paperwork later. Separately, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Anyway, you’re free to go whenever you like and no longer seem liable to pass out in bowling alleys.” Carlos’s hair was every bit as soft, silky, and physically appealing as it looked and now there wasn’t much cobweb in it. Cecil was experiencing minor difficulties in actually, physically removing his hand.  
  
In his defense, he was _thinking_ about it. Almost insisting. It was just that his hand wasn’t listening, no matter how sternly he thought at it. Cecil’s fingers were outright wallowing in the soft, full thickness of Carlos’s locks and delivering a lot of unhelpful comments like ‘yay!’ and ‘oh boy!’”  
  
Then Carlos murmured, “That feels nice,” and Cecil resigned himself to the fact that he was probably never removing his hand again.  
  
“I must say,” Cecil told him, stroking Carlos’s hair giddily, “I find it quite odd that a scientist with such gentle sensibilities as yourself—really, you’ve never punitively extracted internal organs? Not even the _once_?” Carlos was giving Cecil that look. The slightly annoyed, pre-lecture look, and Cecil’s heart swelled into his throat with how much he had missed it. “Well, never mind that—you’re so very concerned with public health and safety, and yet it possibly seems to the untrained observer that you are _working yourself to the bone_.”  
  
“There is a lot of public health and safety to be concerned about,” Carlos said, closing his eyes as Cecil fingers scratched along his scalp. “Night Vale is an extremely concerning area.”  
  
“You should have taken me up on dinner,” Cecil found himself saying. And no, not only against his own better judgment, but the better judgment of the entire planet, and the void beyond it, and the forces that held it all together. Seriously, he was wincing as he said them, and yet unable to stop the words charging past his lips.  
  
“I would have made certain you were taking care of yourself,” said the words. “I would have never let you sleep in bowling alleys, or really, anywhere else with such tacky upholstery. I would have brought pillows. And I wouldn’t have ever cooked, _ever_ ; I would have promised you that right off the bat…”  
  
Cecil was expecting his hand to get shoved away and his heart to be stabbed through with a dozen forks of soul-sucking rejection and for Carlos to look _sad_ again, but instead Carlos just lay there, eyes closed…  
  
And this time Cecil said it on purpose. “I would have come by for further study.”  
  
Carlos smiled. “I don’t want to know about the cooking, do I?” He asked.  
  
“But you could,” Cecil whispered. When Carlos’s eyes opened, Cecil was suddenly babbling, “You could know about the cooking—my cooking—and the fact that it usually comes to life and acts very rambunctious, particularly when it tries to eat pedestrians. And you could know that my favorite color is the color of the shirt you’re wearing today, or any day, and that I only eat Italian food with chopsticks because I insist on cultural continuity, and that when I talk about you in the station, they’ve decided I have a Carlos Face—which is very ridiculous because my face could not possibly look like yours—and I would know things about you, like where you sleep when you’re not unconscious in bowling alleys, or why science makes your eyes shine, or why you always smell like pine trees and I’m not certain _how_ I even know what pine trees smell like, given—“  
  
“I got your message,” Carlos interrupted very softly, almost too quiet to be heard.  
  
Cecil found his mouth pressing together. His heart squeezed tight and seemed to leak. “I am sorry about that,” he said at last. “It was very unprofessional, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have pushed.”  
  
“You used the L word,” Carlos stated.  
  
Cecil frowned. “Languish…?”  
  
Carlos gave him a look. “The _other_ one, Cecil.”  
  
“Oh.” Cecil felt his face heating up. “That was—well. You see. I had perhaps gone a teensy bit over my limit. With the scotch. And the vermouth. Um.”  
  
“I don’t love you,” Carlos said, and Cecil’s hand stopped moving like it had just been shot. With a machine gun. Mortally.  
  
 _That’s alright_ , Cecil thought about saying, while his hand bled out and quietly suffered through its death throes. _It’s alright that you don’t, and I know you don’t think I know it, but I do. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out and you’ve never asked for me to love you, it’s just that I can’t help it, just like I can’t help really wishing that you did love me, even just a little._  
  
And then Carlos said, “But when I said I don’t date—that was because I haven’t wanted to date in a long time. And I haven’t had any reason to, and it was, I guess, _easier_ not to? And I didn’t think I would want to date again, because it ended so horribly—and ugh, I’m not trying to unfold my tale of woe here—look, we don’t know each other very well yet. And.”  
  
“I understand,” Cecil tried to say, at the exact same time as Carlos asked,  
  
“Cecil, can I take you to dinner?”  
  
It was all very abrupt and shocking and unexpected. Carlos was looking at him, and… oh? Was he waiting for an _answer_? Oh. Okay. Right. Cecil could…  
  
So, wait. Cecil was allowed to say yes?  
  
Cecil’s heart did a cartwheel and he said, “Antwhup,” when what he really meant was yes, and he corrected himself at length. “Yes, yes, yes—” and then there was that awkward point where he’d said yes just one time too many and Carlos was just staring at him. Cecil tried to look calm, suave, collected, and generally like he wasn’t about to vibrate out of his skin with delight. In short, he tried to look very datable.  
  
Which was when Carlos kissed him.  
  
Once. _Gently_.  
  
It was way too short to get much out of it, particularly when the combination of shock and physical illness was leaving Cecil feeling extremely faint, but fireworks still went off. They were splendid, awe-inspiring, and they shorted out the overhead lights. Cecil broke away from Carlos in a shower of sparks and the dim whine of failed circuitry.  
  
Carlos stared at Cecil in the dark and said, “I think I need some sleep.”  
  
“Okay,” Cecil said, and fled to the bedroom to be embarrassingly happy in private until he passed out on the floor in a puddle of blankets and effervescent joy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, do me a solid here. I know this is late; I hit the end of my prewritten stuff (sort of, there were hiccups that no one but me needs to worry about and to make a long story short, I should not be allowed to edit things while unsupervised) but NO this story is in no way over. I wrote a bunch more.  
> And now I kind of need you guys to tell me if it's at all on the same caliber as what I wrote in the beginning. Sorry for being insecure. New author here. Very unstable.  
> Anyway, just if you happen to notice that it's not funny or is too spastic or lacks all the squishy feels or. You know. Anything that comes to mind. Because I seriously cannot tell.  
> Thanks in advance?  
> \----

There was nothing quite so wonderful, dear readers, as starting the day with the realization that the person you like best in the world had spent the night on your couch. Even if there was, Cecil was prepared to argue his case. There would be note cards with highlighted key points, and informational pamphlets. Nothing would improve this moment for him and suggesting otherwise was an affront to civic decency.  
  
So dazed with excitement, staring up at his bedroom ceiling at six o’clock in the morning, his thoughts stuffed full of science and breakfast plans, Cecil counted his too-fast heartbeats and experienced utter contentment. He was done being presumptuous, you understand. _That_ had gotten him nothing but painful silence and a great deal more fudge ice cream than he had any business eating. He was absolutely, positively, overwhelmingly NOT going to let his hopes run rampant again.  
  
But there really wasn’t any other way to interpret last night, was there? The kiss had happened, in real life. A part of his body had touched Carlos’s lips _on purpose_. Cecil didn’t have to interpret it, didn’t have to wonder. Carlos liked Cecil, in the most juvenile, playground sort of way and _this was perfection._  
  
Cecil rolled around on his mattress in a tangle of sheets. He was laughing again. How had this all gone right so very quickly? Pretty much all he wanted to do was find out what Carlos looked like when he woke up, but alas. It wouldn’t do to let serendipity do all the heavy lifting.  
  
Stoppering his chuckles with a barricade of teeth, Cecil sprang out of bed and tiptoed to his window. Carefully, biting his lip, Cecil pried his window open to the chilly Night Vale dawn and eased his way out. With both of his bare feet balanced on the windowsill, pajama pants legs flapping in the breeze, Cecil bent down to close the window. Edged away from the glass and peered down.  
  
“Hi, Todd!” Cecil hissed, mindful of his decision to be a better neighbor. Todd, who appeared to be mindlessly staring at Cecil’s truck, looked up. He observed his neighbor clad in NVCR themed pajamas, perched on a three inch strip of wood, and waving.  
  
Cecil observed that he was not very perceptive in the mornings, but that now he knew what the top of Carlos’s head looked like from an aerial perspective, which was cool. Also, Carlos was an early riser.  
  
 _Do not swoon off the windowsill, Cecil._  
  
“Carlos,” Cecil breathed in the voice of someone who had just been hit by a truck.  
  
Carlos’s mouth opened. “Oh my god” drifted up to Cecil’s ears on the sweltering tones of Cecil’s favorite scientist. He took a step in Cecil’s direction—was that concern on his face?  
  
 _DO NOT swoon off the windowsill, Cecil!_  
  
And Carlos was literally running towards him. Admittedly circumstances weren’t ideal, and at this point leaping into Carlos’s arms were liable to get one or both of them broken bones, so Cecil had no right at all to be thrilled senseless about this. No right at all. He kept his fingers wrapped around the molding in case he started floating again.  
  
“No, no, it’s okay!” Cecil called, flapping a hand at Carlos before he could display more concern and send Cecil fainting right off the edge of the second story of his house. “I’m fine! I’ll be down in a jiffy!” Carlos slowed, gaping at him, and Cecil couldn’t help but beam at him. “You just wait right there. Two seconds.” Oh no, and Cecil’s hands were shaking! Inopportune time, physiological responses! Very inopportune. Cecil was going to have to have a very stern talk with them after— _Carlos._  
  
Beautiful, concerned Carlos, who was currently staring upwards and asking, “Cecil, why are you climbing out your window?” A little helplessly, he added, “Before breakfast,” because this statement seemed to need further qualification. Cecil, still pinned between Carlos’s gaze and the frantic pounding of a lovesick heart, found himself attempting to convey through various gestures that _Carlos_ and _wanted you to rest_ and _combusting via happiness_ were all still ongoing facts.  
  
He decided then and there that he was most certainly an unforgivable dork in Carlos’s presence. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it.  
  
“Ah,” said Carlos, in a sort of non-committal placeholder indicating that he'd understood none of that, but was willing to wait until Cecil came down and explained it to him. He shifted his weight, suddenly awkward, as though he was only now realizing that _we kissed_ and _did I really just come running at him with arms outstretched?_ were also ongoing facts. He blushed mightily. “Er.”  
  
“Two seconds,” squeaked Cecil. He got a good grip on the siding, thought clawed thoughts, and skittered quickly down the side of his home. He stubbed his toe leaping the last three feet, saw Carlos’s eyes widen, and thought, _I could actually throw myself in his arms now._ Cecil suddenly found himself unable to do it—wow, had he actually been seriously considering it?—and instead grinned a little nervously. Cecil was aware of the fact that he was in his pajamas and almost certainly looked like he hadn’t slept all night. He was really, really hoping that Carlos hadn’t found any threatening messages this morning. That had been kind of the whole point of sneaking outside—to find and dismantle any threats, bombs, or otherwise indications that Carlos should reconsider wanting to kiss Cecil again.  
  
Carlos said, “What happened to the stairs?”  
  
Stairs? What about the— _ohh._ A nervous, unforgivably shrill laugh bubbled out of Cecil’s throat and he winced. “Oh. When I said come down you meant… down the stairs.”  
  
Carlos’s eyes were still very wide. “Yes. Yes, I did.”  
  
 _Okay, now Carlos thinks you’re completely weird. But you can still rescue this situation, Cecil, come on! Say something witty!_  
  
“Sometimes I climb out the window,” Cecil’s mouth said, absolutely without permission. “You know? When you just need a morning to start off a little differently, and you need to check that your escape routes are still viable. It’s good exercise too. A great way to wake up.”  
  
Why did he do this to himself? Better yet, why did the elder gods let him do this to himself?  
  
He managed to stop talking before Carlos could look any more disquieted. For his part, Cecil couldn’t quite look Carlos in the eye anymore. Ugh. What was with Cecil’s premature relationship suicides? Any minute now Carlos was going to say the kiss was a mistake and he didn’t want to date anyone after all. It would be all Cecil’s fault, too. He wished the sands would open up and drag him down to their lifeless, ignominious depths, where he couldn’t make himself look like any more of an idiot.  
  
“I like your pajamas,” Carlos said after a moment.  
  
Cecil looked up. Carlos smiled hesitantly. He had a little bit of a bedhead. If Cecil had been a braver man, he would have kissed Carlos on the spot.  
  
Instead Cecil cleared his throat and jerked a thumb back towards his abode. “Are you hungry? I can make us breakfast… If you want.”  
  
Carlos hesitated.  
  
 _Please,_ Cecil thought, bare feet burrowing into the sand just a little. _Please say yes?_  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Carlos said, clearing his throat like he was embarrassed. Cecil breathed out in relief. “Sorry to impose?”  
  
“It’s not an imposition,” Cecil tripped over himself to insist, smile coming helplessly back to his face. “I’d love to have a conversation with you. It’s been a while.”  
  
Carlos followed him back towards the house, shoes crunching after the tapping of Cecil’s heels. “I guess it has.” Cecil fumbled open the door, patting his feet against the welcome mat in a fruitless attempt to not track half the desert in after him. Carlos’s voice drifted behind him, gruff, “Sorry—it’s not like I was trying to. Ignore you. I was just thinking about…”  
  
Cecil slammed the door shut in front of them, loudly cutting off whatever Carlos was thinking about. He also shoved Carlos to the side automatically, grabbing the front of his shirt before the scientist could fall down the steps. There was a dull, audible thud from the opposite side of the door, and then Carlos was looking at Cecil, who was doing his best not to do anything particularly incriminating because breakfast was officially in jeopardy and this was _inexcusable._  
  
“Good Carlos, if you will excuse me,” Cecil said through a well-honed professional smile. He released Carlos’s (very soft) shirt. “I need to tidy something up, just for a moment.” Carlos was giving him a blank stare. It didn’t question so much as challenge Cecil to do something that wasn’t worth questioning intensely. “The stairs are malfunctioning,” Cecil informed him smoothly, and opened the door again, ducking low before dashing inside. He snapped the door after him.  
  
A second hatchet had embedded itself in the door by the first, just where the head of an adult male radio broadcaster might be. Or the neckline of a perfect and wonderful and _hungry_ scientist. Cecil growled under his breath, scanning his entryway for any further projectiles, but no, that seemed to be done now.  
  
The second hatchet had come with a note—how _charming_. Cecil crumpled it without looking and wrenched the blades out of the door. “Cecil? Are you okay?” Oh god, Cecil had left Carlos on the doorstep. This was exiting Socially Unacceptable and into downright Rude, which was the last thing Cecil wanted to be with the lovely Carlos. But if it came down to it, he supposed he was more comfortable being rude than having Carlos bleed out on Cecil’s doorstep.  
  
“Absolutely sublime,” Cecil chirped back through clenched teeth. He noticed a series of cursed runes now etched into what had been a very nice table—dammit, Carlos had been right there. He could have gotten hurt!  
  
Oh, it was _on_ now. Cecil would be having a very serious chat with the SSP about this (after breakfast).  
  
It took about three minutes of frantically running around, and Cecil’s pockets were now overflowing with offensive notes. He opened the door again, squinting into the light in the desperate hope that maybe Carlos was still there. And by the grace of some wondrous entity, Carlos was. He was frowning, but that wasn’t the same as offended, right? Right. “Come in, I’m so sorry,” Cecil beckoned, giving his house a final cursory once-overs in case anything else manifested. “It’s a bit of a mess.”  
  
Carlos was staring at the gouges in the wood the hatchets had left. Dammit.  
  
“Breakfast!” Cecil announced as sunnily as possible, and steered Carlos towards the table. “What are you hungry for?”  
  
“Why does your door have holes in it?” Curse Carlos’s superior powers of perception! “Those weren’t there before.”  
  
“Oh? Didn’t I already say?” Cecil pulled out Carlos’s chair for him, and Carlos sat down naturally—and in spite of everything, Cecil still had to turn his head away to grin. “Stair malfunction,” Cecil offered, darting into the kitchen. His refrigerator let out a long, reverberating howl when opened—but that wasn’t an intimidation tactic; his refrigerator always did that. Cecil looked back at Carlos, who looked utterly befuddled to find himself sitting behind Cecil’s kitchen table and was eyeing the fridge with a large degree of trepidation.  
  
“The stairs put holes in your front door,” Carlos stated, raising his eyebrows.  
  
Alright, he wasn’t proud of this, but faced with Carlos’s moderately suspicious stare and the ongoing peril of his plans to share a meal with Carlos, Cecil cheated.  
  
“Is this one of those things you don’t have outside of Night Vale?” Cecil asked as innocently as possible. Carlos blinked at him, but looked a little more reassured. Cecil, feeling slightly dirty and also suffering the pangs of unadulterated, grade A desperation, asked, “Do you like eggs?”  
  
As it turned out, Carlos did like eggs. Cecil made them both omelets, resolutely directing the conversation away from what a stair malfunction entailed, and Carlos tentatively began to talk about some of his experiments. Cecil hummed encouragingly, excited because Carlos was excited, and because Carlos was sitting at his _breakfast table_ , talking about science and work things and how much cheese he wanted on his omelet. Cecil didn’t want to do anything but laugh and smile and track sand on the kitchen tiles while cooking omelets for the rest of his week.  
  
He wondered if that showed a little, somehow, because every time he spared a glance away from the stove and Carlos was looking at him, their eyes met, the atmosphere seemed to hiccup, and Carlos blushed and his eyes wobbled away. Cecil couldn’t stop looking. It was practically pathological.  
  
“That smells amazing,” Carlos said when Cecil brought both their omelets over. His voice had enough sincerity wrapped in it to fluster away any hope of a coherent response. Cecil didn’t even try, just smiled until his face hurt. He was looking for the orange milk hiding in the back of his fridge when Carlos said, “Hm? Cecil, there’s something… stuck to…” Paper crinkled.  
  
Paper? There was no paper at the ta—oh _crap._  
  
“Carlos!” Cecil gasped, spinning around with his spatula outstretched in an exclamation of surprise. “Behind you!”  
  
“Huh?” Carlos turned, holding Cecil’s plate, the corner of a note dangling between his fingers, still half attached to the bottom with strings of sticky tack. Cecil moved probably faster than he ever had in his life, flipping the plate (omelet and all) out of Carlos’s hands. It somersaulted upwards, narrowly clipping the ceiling fan, rocketing now towards Cecil’s face just in time for him to see hairy, protuberant legs unfolding from some no doubt unpleasant denizen of the note. Cecil grimly hefted his frying pan.  
  
“Cecil, there’s nothing—“ Carlos turned back upon hearing the tinkling crash of something ceramic meeting a brutal end. More subdued was the squish of the highly venomous shadowspider, which was now a smear below Cecil’s heel as he smiled winningly at Carlos’s frown. Carlos eyed what was visible—several large pieces of plate, an unfortunate omelet casualty, and Cecil: clutching a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other and breathing just a little bit too hard.  
  
“Oops,” Cecil chirped. “It just slipped right out of my hand! Clumsy me.”  
  
Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Stair malfunction?”  
  
…Something in Carlos’s tone was informing Cecil that this question did not come with a correct answer.  
  
So instead, using his foot to nudge a few shards of his plate over the twitching and rapidly decomposing remains of the demonic spider, Cecil went with, “There is no such thing as a malfunction if it lets me spend more time with you this morning.”  
  
Carlos coughed and ducked his head. “God, Cecil,” he murmured, sounding deeply embarrassed and perhaps a little endeared. Cecil’s heard sped up. He thought he’d probably gotten the answer right after all.  
  
Now to whip up another omelet—  
  
The bottom of the frying pan was covered with spider giblets.  
  
…On second thought, Cecil was probably good with some gluten-free toast.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whhhyyyy do my Star Trek fics suck so much? I mean, I fully recognize that none of the people over in Night Vale care, but. I'm going to whine about it anyway. This little blurb exists for me to vent my personal problems.
> 
> _Personal problems._
> 
> **Personal problems.**
> 
> Personal problems.
> 
> There! All vented! And don't we all feel ever so lovely for it? I'm not sure this chapter is up to snuff, but it's late, I'm frustrated, and this seems like a good idea, so here you are! Relish the wonderment.

Breakfast was quieter after that—it seemed there were no more traps and notes lying in wait. Cecil sat across from Carlos, nibbling at his food with a stomach full of butterflies, and trying not to inhale orange milk every time he glanced up and revisited the concept of Carlos eating breakfast across from him, close enough to have their voices lowered to an intimate whisper.  
  
Carlos was gradually coaxed back onto the subject of the atmospheric experiments his lab was running.  
  
The omelet disappeared in record time, so Cecil made him some toast too. The rate at which it vanished was a pretty good indication of approval.  
  
So far there had been no cooking mishaps. Cecil thanked the dark gods for this unexpected boon.  
  
“I, er,” Carlos said the third time Cecil was adding toast to his plate. He grimaced. “Sorry. I’m eating way too much, aren’t I? I can pay you back—“  
  
“Nope,” Cecil fussed, shooing the frown away with one of his own. “I won’t allow it. Why, as a member of Night Vale’s community, it is my solemn civic duty to make sure all guests are well sustained for the coming scientific discoveries.” He waved the butter knife at Carlos warningly. “I take my civic duties very seriously.”  
  
Carlos grinned around the toast for a second—broad and unabashed—and then he was ducking his head again, muttering about eating people out of house and home and really, this was his last slice. Cecil basked in it. He wanted to ask about their dinner plans—what day? When? Where? And he wanted to ask about the kiss and whether it meant what he was really hoping it meant, or if it was just one of those spontaneous things that happened when you were respectively exhausted and sick and were making dinner dates. But he couldn’t seem to find the moment. Carlos made him so tongue-tied. You’d think the past ten years at the radio station had never happened, that Cecil was the same goofy, linguistically confused kid he hadn’t been in forever—that’s how it felt now, across the table. It was mortifying.  
  
And Cecil was disgustingly happy anyway.  
  
He was hoping Carlos would bring it up because he clearly wasn’t able to. But breakfast ended without talking about it, and Carlos had to get back to the lab and Cecil was struck by the rather perturbing sense that he was a nineteen-fifties housewife unwillingly sending his husband out to work. He wasn’t sure what to take from that image other than a firm reminder that he and Carlos weren’t married and possibly weren’t even dating—he really, really needed to figure out how to ask about their date—and by then Carlos was at the door and looking at him. Cecil looked back. The air hummed, the film of their lives set to pause, and Cecil held his breath.  
  
“Thanks for breakfast,” Carlos said, smile faltering a little. “And, uh, for letting me stay here. And.” But whatever the ‘and’ was, Carlos didn’t finish it. He shrugged instead, a little helpless, overly endearing, and Cecil took a step forward like he was magnetized. Got ahold of himself. Shuffled back. Tried to make it look like he was getting sand out of his toes.  
  
“I loved having you over,” he told Carlos with just a touch too much sincerity. “You’re always welcome here, Carlos, of course. I hope you know that.” Carlos seemed to drift a little closer—Cecil’s eyes widened, were they going to?—and then no, Carlos was opening the door and muttering “bye” and then Cecil was just faced with the two holes the hatchets had left.  
  
He promptly sat on the floor and groaned into his hands a little bit, immersed in a glorious parade of every last thing he’d done wrong this morning. His mouth stretched into a grin in spite of this, because Carlos had _stayed_. He definitely—Cecil had a shot, didn’t he? Even if it was a spontaneous nothing kiss. It was still a kiss. Beautiful, perfect Carlos’s lips had come into contact with Cecil’s, and now the universe would have to abide with the no take-backsies rule. Cecil had work to get to; he could not spend all morning on the floor. But you know what?  
  
He’d gotten a kiss!  
  
With one last sigh of delight, Cecil pulled the wadded up notes out of his pockets. They sobered him nicely. The messages were pretty generic, all except for one, lightly stained with spider slime.  
  
 _This is a warning. This is your last meal with the Scientist, before the consequences escalate._  
  
 _Further entanglement is prohibited._  
  
 _YOU WILL OBEY, Cecil Palmer._  
  
Cecil immediately stuck out his tongue at the sanctimonious bullshit before him. Yeah _right._  
  
But then again, they’d put Carlos in harm’s way this time. That really couldn’t be taken lightly. If Cecil wanted to have Carlos around him (and oh, readers, he very much did), he needed to put an end to this.  
  
He was going to have to make an appeal.  
  
Cecil sighed into his pajama-clad knees. He’d honestly been hoping he could avoid this.

\----

Cecil’s love for radio was unconditional—no one stuck with a job that bragged this high a mortality rate without a serious passion for it—and so it was no insignificant thing for Cecil to feel the day drag on and on and just generally be twitching all over his booth, wanting it to be over. It felt like the longest hours of his life and Station Management had to growl at him twice to get him to shuffle back to his seat. Every time he opened his mouth, part of him was worried that he’d end up with a case of the Carlos and blurt out things that didn’t need saying.  
  
For instance, it was killing him inside that he couldn’t declare that he and Carlos had kissed.  
  
It was most certainly relevant information! Carlos was perfect, and it was only fair for Cecil to inform the populace that now he had a stake in that and wasn’t above playing very dirty to drive off the competition. And besides, the longer Cecil held it in, the more it felt like something that he needed to shout across town. It possibly required pamphlets. With graphs and diagrams. And maybe a personal jingle.  
  
He’d been reining in these influences admirably, so far. Cecil had not discussed picking Carlos up from the bowling alley, and he most certainly had not discussed the kissing and the possible Oh God, I Really Hope So dating that they might foreseeably be doing. Not a single word. He was relentlessly on topic and it was _killing_ him.  
  
Station Management could growl all it wanted. At this rate, Cecil would die of heart failure long before they could reach him.  
  
But _okay._ Truth be told, he had a secret weapon. Texting Carlos too many times with what began as date suggestions and ended with judicious application of the delete key and a lot of inane observations about the weather and the taste of coffee at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday? This was a very successful means of seeking self-control.  
  
And self-control was necessary because Cecil didn’t need to exacerbate the situation. Cecil was obviously going to have to pick a fight, but he was going to do it through the official channels like a civilized person.  
  
This was less likely to get Carlos kidnapped while Cecil was trapped in the recording studio, waiting for work to be over.  
  
So with great relief he ended the broadcast, called in intern Kale, and asked, “Mind informing on me?”  
  
Kale stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was a brave attempt.  
  
Cecil peered at him over the edge of his microphone. It was a very knowing look. It was a look that stated that fibbing to the Voice of Night Vale while he was at his desk was generally a poor course of action. Kale slumped a little bit.  
  
“I’m only a junior operative,” he said with a forlorn sigh. “They’ll kick me out for being indiscreet.”  
  
Cecil smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure they’ll understand that circumstances were extenuating.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess.” Kale popped his gum for what might be the last time in the office. Cecil understood his fascination with it. It was hard to do that sort of thing when wearing a black balaclava—this was quite the novel experience. “Are you confessing to anything, or just getting your annual interrogations out of the way?”  
  
“Confessing,” Cecil said with a rueful wrinkle of his nose. “Class A infraction.”  
  
Intern Kale’s gum fell out of his mouth.

\----

God, Cecil hated making appeals.  
  
At least he was done with the preliminary processing. So, greatly bruised, limping slightly, short a quart of blood, and singed around the edges, he marched onward. Two SSP operatives (neither of them Kale) were driving him roughly to one of the squat black doors leading to interrogation cells. They tossed Cecil through the doorway, Cecil caught himself by slamming into a steel table, and grumbled to himself as another trickle of blood ran down from the zip ties cinched around his hands. Ugh, they _itched_.  
  
The microphone on the table asked, “Citizen Cecil Gershwin Palmer?”  
  
“Yes, hello,” Cecil mustered with what jauntiness he had left. For lack of a chair, he leaned against the edge of the table. Before the microphone could ask, he added impatiently, “Confessing a level A infraction, disobedience to a direct order from the Sheriff’s Secret Police.”  
  
“Shame on you Cecil,” the microphone interrupted before he could go any further. “Shame on you. I hope you understand that we’re all very disappointed.”  
  
Because Cecil knew that every inch of this room was wired with cameras and he really did not want to be introduced to a tazer again, he did not roll his eyes. “I’m actually here to submit an appeal about this,” Cecil said as pleasantly as possible.  
  
“You understand that such an appeal may be met with an immediate and firm denial? Followed by mandatory re-education and the forfeit of a third of your lifespan?”  
  
Cecil sighed. “Yes.”  
  
“And that pending approval, you are still responsible for the punitive actions you have already brought upon yourself?”  
  
Oh god, this was really testing Cecil’s ability not to roll his eyes. “Yes! Yes, yes, _yes_.”  
  
In a suitably grave voice, he was ordered to “proceed.”  
  
“I received your tasteful—and I’m sure, very well-meaning—instructions to cease interactions with a certain individual,” Cecil explained politely. “As well as the gentle coercion to assist in sanctioned decision-making. Signed the traditional way, of course, with a sincere entreaty for unquestioning obedience. Very charming, overall. Have I told you so before?”  
  
“Yes, thank you. We enjoy your support, Citizen Cecil.”  
  
“I declined to obey.” There was silence from the microphone, which was uncharacteristic of Cecil’s (urgh) previous experiences with making appeals. Tentatively, he offered, “I was hoping to appeal for the reversal of this order. I would like to interact with Carlos the Scientist very much—in fact, I would like to increase my interactions with Carlos the Scientist. I am extremely puzzled about why these interactions are so frowned upon.”  
  
“Carlos the Scientist?” The microphone repeated, rather blank. “Would you—just excuse me for a second, please.”  
  
“Of course,” Cecil agreed gracefully.  
  
The microphone thoughtfully provided romantic elevator music. Cecil wiped blood on his pants. Cecil managed to itch the back of his neck with his shoulder. Cecil reached the point where he was peeling burned flakes of skin off of his fingers. Surely, this was the highlight of his life.  
  
The radio rasped back to life. “So, uh… no such recommendation was given to Cecil Palmer.”  
  
Cecil blinked at the radio. “And how does that work?”  
  
There was a crackling sigh over the other end. “Oh, this is just embarrassing. You’ve got a copycat on your hands, Cecil. No one _here_ sent out any recommendation about Carlos the Scientist. We’re so sorry you had to come all the way out here!”  
  
“It’s alright,” Cecil said, largely because he was out of ideas. The SSP wasn’t sending the warnings? Who else was able to get in and out of Cecil’s home so easily? Why, they’d have to know every in and out of his—admittedly extensive—security system. “I, um, I’m glad to hear that.”  
  
“You know what?” The microphone said. “I’m just going to sign you off for your annual interrogation. There. Done. You’re good until next year, and you’re free to go. Just wait for someone to collect you and lead you back out the catacombs.”  
  
“That’s very kind of you.”  
  
“Unofficially?” The operative’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You guys are soooo cute. You should totally go for it! I’ve got a twenty riding on this!”  
  
Cecil grinned, leaning a little closer. “Not to brag, but…”  
  
“Oh no, what? Tell us!”  
  
“I may have invited,” _yes, let’s go with that_ , “Carlos to my home last night. And…”  
  
There was a squeak from the microphone. “Oh my god!”  
  
“…There may have been a kiss…”  
  
By the time a very apologetic operative came to let Cecil go, he’d reduced his interrogator to a great deal of squealing. While Cecil’s head was stuffed back into a black hood, the interrogator was informing him, “I would so blog about this. Ugh, it sucks that it has to be a secret. Even if we are the SSP. And secret is what we do.”  
  
Overall, Cecil supposed he was glad to discover that they weren’t his enemies. The last time, the appeal-making process had taken the better part of three months. No one liked to remember the radio-less summer of ’01. The station had been reduced to total chaos, the City Council had started systematically eating everyone who ventured downtown, and the interns had declared martial law over all of Night Vale.  
  
The things Cecil would do for Carlos, _honestly._  
  
Of course, this did beg a very important question:  
  
If it wasn’t the SSP, then who? Who would have a vested interest in Cecil’s personal relationships? Who had the audacity—nay, the malignant villainous tendencies—to seek to destroy something as timelessly perfect as true love?  
  
Cecil thought about this during the winding drive through the unrecognizable patch of desert his SSP friends had dropped him off in. The unmarked black vehicle provided for him helpfully released the smell of a burning cat whenever one diverted from a path leading back to Night Vale, so Cecil was coasting along, swerving away from cacti, and thinking hard. The longer he thought about it, the more he concluded that there was only one possible culprit for such a heinous crime. One enemy of love, and hope, and all things good in this dimensional plane.  
  
God, Cecil was good at this detective stuff.  
  
It could only be Steve _Carlsburg_.


End file.
